


The Play's the Thing

by LizzyLovegood



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Doctor Who Secret Santa, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:24:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5513786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzyLovegood/pseuds/LizzyLovegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Most people wouldn’t have ventured to some little indie bookstore, never mind be capable of charming the churlish owner into unlocking the door after closing time." Ten/Rose bookstore AU written for the DW Secret Santa Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Play's the Thing

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for bitchymama for the Doctor Who Secret Santa Exchange on Tumblr. I hope this fits the bill, lovely. :) I'm sorry, I couldn't find a way to incorporate smut.

****The door’s locked. There’s a _Closed_ sign hung over the list of hours, 8 till 5 Monday through Saturday, 9 to noon on Sundays. Rose tries the knob again, somehow surprised to meet resistance - again. _5:01_. It’s bloody 5:0 _1_ , no one can be that fastidious a timekeeper.

She raps on the glass but the front counter remains empty, no harried employee comes scurrying from between the high shelves. Rose sighs, a puff of steam that fogs up her side of the glass; with her finger, she traces circles in circles, spiraling outward till she reaches clear glass again through which she can see, wonder of wonders, a tall, thin man wending his way toward the front of the store. He ducks behind the counter to sling a messenger bag over one shoulder just as Rose knocks on the glass. He startles, fumbling a thick keyring in his hands. When he does spot her, his eyebrows disappear into his messy brown fringe - in annoyance or surprise, Rose can’t tell. Maybe a bit of both.

Hoping for the latter she waves, the word _Hi_ backwards in the glass. In reply, the man points at the _Closed_ sign.

Rose gives him her best pair of puppy-dog eyes, lower lip jutting out and hands clasped in front of her. “Please - I’ll just be a second.” She doesn’t know if he can hear her or not but it’s worth a shot.

Raking a hand through his hair reveals his eyebrows again - furrowed now to match the downturn of his mouth - the man crosses to the door and opens it just a crack.

“I’ll just be a sec,” Rose repeats. “I just need--”

“There’s a Waterstone’s right down the street. I’m sure they have whatever vampire erotica you’re looking for.”

“--Shakespeare,” she continues doggedly. “And I tried Waterstone’s. They were out of stock.”

“Of _Shakespeare_?” He sounds scandalized, voice going squeaky on the last syllable.

“Of--” Rose fishes a crumpled syllabus from her coat pocket “-- _Romeo and Juliet_. They only had it in some whole compendium but that costs fifty quid and I need it for a class, the paper’s due tomorrow. The girl there said you might have a copy.”

“Cutting it a bit close.”

Rose consults the piece of paper again. “She said I should ask for John. Is that you?”

She doesn’t doubt it is. The girl had also mentioned he could be a right arse when he wanted to be. (A handsome arse, but all the same.) It’s what must happen when someone’s primary interactions are with people made of ink and paper. But she stays silent on this point and the others she wants to throw in his face - how she’s been working overtime since term started to cover the bills Jimmy left her with and that’s still not enough, how she hasn’t read for pleasure since primary school which stumbling through old Elizabethan and two idiots in love is not. Satisfying as it might be, the door will almost certainly shut in her face; only one red trainer sticks through the gap in the door now and he shifts his weight on and off of it, inching towards Rose as she edges, close as she can get to the welcome warmth of the store. It really _is_ cold out here, even for December.

“I’m Rose,” she says. Reluctantly, she removes one hand from the warmth of her pocket, wiggling her fingers in tentative greeting. “Hello.”

There’s a long moment where he simply studies her, then nods, rakes his hand through his hair again and opens the door a bit more, just enough for Rose to slip inside. He shuts it behind them, then beckons her down an especially cluttered aisle.

“If you’re going to read Shakespeare, you can’t just read _Romeo and Juliet_ ,” he calls over his shoulder, half-scolding. “That’s like reading _Oliver Twist_ and nothing else from Dickens. _Dickens_!”

Too absorbed in not tripping over stray stacks that are spilling off the shelves - stacked three-deep as it is - Rose doesn’t tell him she’s only seen _Oliver and Company_. Not when it will only result in another judgmental frown.

John stops suddenly and, not expecting it, Rose half-falls into him; a hand at her elbow steadies her. “Careful,” he warns before turning back to what must be the correct shelf in his mental catalogue. With gilt lettering and yellowing pages, these volumes look even more threatening than the ones Rose nearly tripped over.

“Or are you more of a Jane Austen girl?” he continues, undiscouraged by her silence.

“I’m more of a Cliffnotes girl,” says Rose, offhand. She’s run into his kind before, blokes worse than Jimmy in their own right; they seem nice at first but remind her with every word that she’s not as bright as they are, as well-read, as talented at the most inane of pursuits. May as well confirm his assumption that she’s nothing but an ignorant cockney girl and he’s the benevolent bookkeeper when he wants to be at home stroking his cat and smoking a pipe or whatever it is he does. He certainly looks the part in that pinstriped suit.

She expects him to _tsk_ at her again, or else make some cool comment about Waterstone’s being out of stock of those, too. Instead he pulls a book with a thick, red spine from the shelf and hands it to her. Rose reads the title: _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_.

“I could’ve gotten this an hour ago.”

“Nope.” He taps the cover with one long finger. “First edition, this. There’s even a draft of _Love’s Labours Won_ in here. It’s a rare find.”

None of which made any difference to Rose. “Definitely more than fifty quid, then.” But when she tries to put it back on the shelf, John blocks the space with his hand. “Seriously, I don’t have the money for this. I told you, I’m just looking for the one play.”

“That’s alright.”

Rose narrows her eyes at him. “I’m not having coffee with you. Or going to dinner. Or whatever. My mum’s expecting me.”

He shrugs. “I want to get home as badly as you do. We _are_ closed, if you recall.”

“You let me in.”

“Wellll,” John tugs at one ear, dragging out the monosyllable in a strangely endearing move, “you were here for a reason. I couldn’t let the procrastinators of the world down, could I? Some people work best under pressure.”

And there’s that condescending comment she was waiting for. She’d almost believed “Help me find what I’m looking for and I’ll get right on that.”

“I did! _Romeo and Juliet_ ’s in there. A bunch of better plays, too. _Hamlet_ , _Othello_ , _King Lear_.” He ticks them off on his fingers. “ _Much Ado About Nothing_ if you like a bit of comedy.”

It’s all gibberish to Rose. Growling out a sigh, she places the compilation on top of the nearest jumbled pile and heads for the door. She doesn’t need to stand for this.

“Where are you going?” John cuts himself off mid-monologue, the slap of his trainers against the hardwood floor follows behind her but Rose doesn’t turn around. “Rose?”

“If you’re not going to help me, I’ll just watch the bloody film.”

“But you came _here_.” He has the peculiar talent of vocalizing his pout, making it all the harder for Rose to ignore him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, I - I just think it’s admirable.”

 _Admirable_. Hasn’t she heard that often enough? How _admirable_ it is that she’s piecing her life back together after Jimmy walked out on her because _no one would blame you for being a mess, love_. Why, isn’t it _admirable_ that she’s going back to get her A-levels when her marks went down the tube and _won’t you be proving them all wrong, dear_. Admirable is just a nice way of calling you a mess. She swings around, bristling, wishing her mum were here to dole out a slap.

“What? Some girl from the estates reading classical literature? Sorry to disappoint you, it’s just the one play. I’m not a Dickens or an Austen or a . . .” she racks her brain, “a Bronte girl, either. You want to save that for the _smart_ girls.”

“You’re smart.”

Rose feels her face grow hot. “Shut up.”

(Not her best comeback.)

“You are, though,” he argues with that same embarrassing conviction. “You said yourself you could’ve watched the film or found a summary on the Internet or something. Most people wouldn’t have ventured to some little indie bookstore, never mind be capable of charming the churlish owner into unlocking the door after closing time.”

Is he flirting with her? Rose can’t tell. Nor is she sure if she’s flirting back when she replies, “I work in retail. It’s my job to be charming.”

“So do I,” he gestures around the shop, dusty and undoubtedly devoid of customers most of the day. It’s peaceful, somehow. “I think you’re doing a better job of it than I am.”

“Yeah, well . . . Jumpers are easier to sell than Shakespeare.”

“I _am_ sorry for that. Tell you what, I’ll find _Romeo and Juliet_ and you pick out another book. Whatever you want. Buy one, get one free. The Rude Sod discount.”

“You really don’t have to--”

“I want to.” He directs her down an aisle to her left, slightly less cluttered than the last, and much less threatening-looking with inspirational posters tacked to bookshelf sides and a table and chair at the end of the row to sit and browse. “Have you ever read _Harry Potter_?”

“The first couple . . . I think. And the films.” Rose answers on reflex. John pulls what she thinks is the first book from the shelf - it’s the skinniest of the lot, at any rate - and shows it to her. The illustration of Harry in front of the Hogwarts Express looks vaguely familiar, a reminder of easier days. Plus, she’s quite enjoying this new, eager-to-please John. “Honestly, I can barely keep up with the required reading. What if someone else wants it?”

“I don’t exactly have a line out the door. But if it bothers you, consider it a loan. Due back in four weeks?”

“Yeah, alright.”

John beams. He starts trotting toward the till, a spring in his step, and Rose follows. “You’ll love it, trust me. I’ve never met a soul who didn’t.”

“Even one that was split in seven?”

“Ha!” He throws his head back, brown eyes crinkling in laughter. Slipping behind the counter, he grabs a plastic bag and slips the book into it, affecting a frown too stern to be real. “Four weeks, remember.”

“Are you gonna charge me?”

(Yes, they’re definitely flirting now.)

“Oh, I trust you.” He hands her the bag, their fingers brushing. “You’ll need to come back for the second book anyway - won’t you?” It’s not a rhetorical question.

“‘Course,” Rose smiles. “Can’t risk Waterstone’s being out of stock.”

“Then you can let me know how the paper goes?”

“Er . . .” Rose’s teeth find her thumbnail, nibbling on it in a nervous habit she never quite kicked and used to drive Jimmy mad. She’d forgotten all about the paper, worth half of her final grade and due tomorrow afternoon on a play which she only knew Leonardo DiCaprio starred in.

“Don’t mention Leonardo DiCaprio and you should be fine,” says John. His eyes are narrowed, his mouth twisted in a pensive expression; finally, he digs a card out of his wallet. “If you have any questions, call me. My mobile’s on there.”

“Oh.” _John Noble_ , it says in bold, blue type and above that, in all capitals:  _Noble Books_.

“That’s not weird, is it? Giving you my number? It’s not for any - _well_ . . . but I’m a bit of a night owl, anyway and - obviously, you don’t have to . . .”

“Thanks.” Rose tucks the card into the bag as well, headed for the door. “I’ll call you.”

“I look forward to it.”

Five minutes later, she’s knocking on the glass again. He’s waiting, the forgotten play and a cup of tea in hand. There’s a second cup still steaming on the counter.

“Just in case you wanted to stick around,” he offers. “Erm . . . not like - I know Shakespeare can be tough to tackle the first time ‘round.”

They’re two idiots, star-crossed in love or in lust, all Rose knows is she can’t take her eyes off his hesitant smile - but she can’t write a paper on any of that.

“Two weeks.”

“Two--?”

“When my term ends,” she clarifies. “I’ll be done with Harry Potter by then. You can talk Shakespeare all you want to me as long as we get chips.”

John extends his hand for Rose to shake. “Deal.”

Yes. It’s love.


End file.
